


lessons on loving a prophet

by entirelymental



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, beneath han solo's cool exterior is a soft human bean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9315395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entirelymental/pseuds/entirelymental
Summary: 12 things Han learned during his time with Luke.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is called, "lessons on loving a prophet" be jeanann verlee, and I did not change or alter it in any way, nor do I claim ownership of the poem or the characters I'm writing about. 
> 
> With the exception of the first little drabble (though, I think you could reasonably place it early on in the original trilogy timeline), the rest of the stories follow in sequential order. Anyways, happy reading!

**One.**

**You know how this ends. There's nothing you can do to change it, so make peace with it now. Ready your hands for the callus, shred the cloth for bandages, prepare the rosaries.**

Han keeps spares of everything stored in the Falcon, just in case he and Chewie run into some mess and need an extra pair of weapons, cleanup supplies, ship gear, anything.

As of late, he's been stocking up on extra linens; comfortable clothing that wears too small on his tall frame, but fits cozily on someone smaller; soft, but effective gauze; and medicine that, according to the various healers and medics he's stopped along the way to consult on various planets and systems, cures many sicknesses and injuries. He's been keeping them in storage, sporadically placing them about the Falcon. Neither he, nor Chewie, have commented publicly on the sudden excess of items kept aboard the ship - after all, the damned thing is so big that you hardly even notice what's actually _in_ it. Still, whenever the duo dock on some planet, these days more for Rebellion purposes than their usual smuggler routine, Han finds time to slip off and find an extra pair of something.

He's even begun to keep his room tidier, though that task takes little effort, as Han travels with so little to begin with.

("It makes it easier to go from place to place, without making a mess." He responds when the kid asks.

"How convenient," He muses quietly, mulling over the base of his lightsaber.) 

Chewie does take note of this.

"You never know when we're going to have guests, Chewie." He remarks dismissively. "Show some hospitality, y'know. That kind of deal." He doesn't look at Chewie directly either, rather, fixates his attention on wrenching some screw into its rightful place.

Chewie growls in response. _You're expecting someone in particular to spend in your room?_

Han rolls his eyes and scoffs, "Believe what you want, big guy."

**+**

**Two.**

**When you meet him, outside of the grocery, along the boardwalk, beneath the overpass, you will not know what he is. He will neither be too charming nor too handsome, not thunder, not polish.**

The kid is tiny. Teeny tiny. Clearly trying to keep a low profile alongside what Han presumes is his grandfather or something. Sandy hair, eyes a crystal blue, tanned to his toes from the heat of the dustball planet, the last person one would expect to run into in this rank little cantina.

He does have a spitfire little mouth, however, and he's indignant as hell about the quality of Han's ship - something he's used to from frothy, low-browed clients, not from some punk kid who probably has never seen a ship in his whole life.

"What a piece of junk!" He exclaims, upon first sight. Stars, who raised this kid?

"Piece of junk?" Han refutes, walking towards him, in clear disbelief. On the short list of things Han is affectionate about, the Millennium Falcon reigns supreme. A gift from an ill-placed bet (ill-placed only for Lando Calrissian), Han sure treats the thing better than anyone he knows, save Chewie. "She'll make .5 past light speed. She may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts, kid." Then, because he couldn't help himself, he starts rambling, "I've made a lot of special modifications myself..." He drifts off, explaining how the Falcon was top of her class, all the while guiding the kid up the ramp, hand gingerly placed on his elbow.

The kid—Luke—was still openly dubious of the ship, raising eyebrows and hardly concealing his doubt as Han sorts through the ships kinks and fixes. He kept his hand around on Luke's elbow, pulling him through the ship, pointing this way and that way and trying to deliver the skinny on the thing as quickly, and thoroughly, as possible. Obi-Wan lingered behind them, not making a word or sound, but following the conversation quietly, the smallest twinge of a smile on his face.

Han thought nothing of it at the time. 

**+**

**Three.**

**The day you fall in love, his mouth will spill your name. He will repeat and repeat. He will not touch you. He will watch your hips, study whatever ample you have, will ask to watch you dance. When you turn to leave, he will use your name like a choke chain.**

At the moment, celebrations are rampant throughout the Rebel Base. Now that the Death Star has been destroyed and the Empire was undoubtedly stepping back to assess the damage, it bought the rebels enough time to recollect and figure out the next step in a war that seemed stagnate for years... and throw a rager or two, given the special circumstances.

Leia invited Han to a mini-gathering she was having with a few other pilots and generals, but Han declined.

"You sure? You don't seem the type to just turn down free food and drink when it's offered." Leia asked, crossing her arms.

Han laughed briskly before responding, "Well, you'd be right about that, your highness.  But seeing as how I risked instant obliteration on behalf of the rebellion, I think I'm entitled to a little rest."

"Suit yourself," Leia says, no heat in her voice, turning to walk away. "Your furry friend'll be there, if you're looking for him. And when you see Luke, tell him he's more than welcome to come down and celebrate. In fact, everyone there'll probably be upset if he doesn't show up."

Han looks especially skeptical at that second-to-last comment, "He's probably already down there."

Leia arches an eyebrow in response, "Right," Though she sounded unconvinced of this, and when she turned on her heel, Han could hear a faint, "I bet." before she moved out of earshot. 

* * *

 

Han enters the cockpit of the Falcon, fully intending to stretch out, take a power-nap, and then join the rebels later on. The celebrations would undoubtedly carry on all night, so he was in no rush to jump in now. Just as he almost finishes tugging off one of his boots, he hears heavy fabric rustling from within the cockpit. He freezes instantly, pressing himself against the nearest wall, blaster in tow, ready to launch at whatever Empire scum managed to leech onto the Falcon. With one swift move, he goes to reach for the blaster and—

It's Luke.

Slumped in Chewie's spot, mouth slacked, still decked out in x-pilot gear. Han has no idea when the kid even crawled in, let alone fall asleep in the cockpit. But there is, farmboy turned poster boy for the Rebel Alliance, fully immersed in whatever dreams of grandeur or sugarplums he's having, probably doesn't even know that Han is standing there with a blaster cocked at him, in one sock and boot.

He looks so at home, as though sleeping in the Falcon is just an everyday occurrence for him. It almost makes Han not want to disturb him, so he stands there for a few moments time, shifting weight from one foot to the other, craving sleep but not wanting to wake Luke up to get to his seat. Finally, he quietly tip-toes back, intending to move back to his room and bed, but Luke twitches in his sleep and is jolted awake.

Han immediately thinks the kid is gonna flip because he's been caught in the cockpit without anyone inviting him in. To his surprise, he merely curls up, and looks him from across the room with a dazed expression. He is surprised to hear, "We did it, Han." Combined with a sleepy, dopey smile and eyes as blinding and bright as the Tatooine sun from where they came.

A ball of ice begins to rise in Han's stomach, but he dismisses the feeling and tries to summon up as much gusto when he clears his throat to speak, "Yeah we did, kid." Now he just feels mortified when his voice comes out lighter, and softer, than intended. Luke flashes him a tired, lopsided smile and locks of sandy hair flop over his eyes and that ball of ice in Han's stomach continues to thicken. "So, you think you can just waltz in here and sleep in my ship?" He asks, mockingly.

Luke half-doesn't believe him and half-does, so he starts to untangle himself from his spot when Han hurriedly says, surprising even himself, "I'm kidding, you could sleep in my seat, for all I care." The kid, clearly relieved by this bit of information, starts to settle back into his comfortable position, and smiles, but Han notices it's less of a lazy one now, and more akin to someone who knows something the other person doesn't know.

"You could sleep here too, you know." The kid says, eyes closing and returning to rest. "I don't mind."

Stars, Han thinks to himself, he shouldn't have returned at all after Luke declined his offer to join him and Chewie. He should've just steered straight into that dark and unforgiving night, ignored Chewie's insistent growling, and look for the next mission. Rather, he found his hands sharply turning the ship mid-flight off its course, startling the living hell out of Chewie, and he headed straight for the center of the action—straight for Luke.

Someone's gotta protect the damned kid, he remembered thinking angrily. Obviously he's the only person who cares that they're sending a boy into a man's war. The only person who cares what happens to Luke, not because of what he could do for the rebels, but because...

He also recalls that familiar feeling of ice in his stomach then, too.

("I knew you'd come back!" Luke exclaimed, leaping into Han's arms when the rebels were united just a few minutes after the Death Star meets its explosive, fiery, end. "I just knew it!"   

"Well, I couldn't you get all the credit and take the reward!" Han replied, thankful for how quick he was on his feet.)

That's what he let the kid think; that in the end, he was only involved in this whole ordeal to reap the reward and fame. He shifted in his seat, pushing away at the knots pulling in his throat and stomach, finding it more difficult to keep looking at the fucking kid. Trying to reassure himself he was here solely for the recognition and prize, nothing else.

Now, lounging his pilot seat, and absolutely unable to keep his eyes shut for more than a moment’s notice, he tries to force back the epiphany that he hadn't realize he was harboring.

 _Don't you fucking dare, Solo. Don't you fucking dare. You've got bigger things to worry about, and some scrawny little rebel boy is not gonna get in the way of all that_ —

A soft, impossibly tired and sweet, voice chimes and cuts through his thoughts, "G'Night, Han."

Han gives in.

**+**

**Four.**

**He will call you miracle. Your face will unravel. This is his magic. When he begs you promise, say yes.**

Luke is still resting up from the Wampa attack, but that doesn't stop Han and Leia from continuing their usual verbal-scuffle-of-the-day right then and there in the room where he's supposed to be getting rest. Today's hurl of insults included 'nerf-herder', 'your highness', 'fuzzball' (directed at Chewie), and 'moon-jockey' (directed at both Han and Luke).

Leia takes the higher road and storms out of the room, Han nearly following in pursuit, until Luke tugs at Han's sleeve. "Stay here with me," He tries to smile, but the effort is strained.

Han sits at the foot of the bed, facing the kid, one leg on the floor to keep balance. At first he says nothing, just crosses his arms and stares down at the kid, but there's some fight and bite still left in him and he shows Luke this when he says, "That would've been a pretty gruesome way to go," Luke doesn’t reply, choosing to do that thing that Han _hates_ where he cocks his head instead, and calculates him. "You're lucky I'm always here to save your scrawny neck, sandboy. And you're lucky that I'm so willing to do it, too."

"Hey, name-calling is no way to a fella's heart." Luke comments. He stops, stiffens a wince, then starts up again, "Look, I really am grateful for what you did, Han. And I know I owe you one," Han holds up two fingers, "okay, TWO. I'll do whatever it takes—"

Jumping at words, Han leans over and uses his leftover heat for something else, inching closer to Luke and closing the space between them, grinning wickedly. "Anything?"

Luke rolls his eyes, but smiles, and presses a kiss against the smuggler's lips. "Anything," He says, muffled by Han's mouth, laughing slightly as Han presses kisses on the corner of his mouth, his chin, around his face in general. He lifts a hand gingerly, to thumb at the side of Han's face and take a couple of moments just to gaze at his significant other. Even now, despite the two being together for some time now, there were moments when Luke (or Han), were in disbelief at what they've managed to forge between them. The next time he speaks, it is soft and quiet and absolutely sincere, "I love you, Han."

His chest tightens immediately. Usually, when Han hears that phrase, it's in between sheets, or the backs of alleys, or in cantina bathrooms, after sweet nothings, always in the dark. Once the smoke clears, and clothes are put back on, however, the words are immediately dismissed, and Han is off to the next mission or operation as if nothing ever happened. He has never been the type to stick around for morning breakfast, let alone stick to one person continually for months and months and get to this point of love and awkwardness.

Luke waits for his response, not terribly expectant, but not too terrified. He knows what he's said, knows how he feels, and he's sure Han already knows it too.

But, stars, if the kid only knew how putty he had Han in his hands. He has Han in the back of his pocket, and doesn't even realize it. He loves him; absolutely worships the ground the kid walks on, even though he has a rather detached way of showcasing it. Luke would never guess, but that's also because Luke is still fairly self-deprecating and unaware of how special he is, especially through Han's lens. He'd never understand why Han looks at him like he's the blasted sun, instead of some hero or scrawny farmboy.

Han's in love with the dumb fucking kid, that's why.

He starts, the corner of his mouth pulling into a lopsided smile, "I know." And kisses him full on the mouth, shutting the kid the hell up before he tries—and succeeds—in getting something else out of him.

**+**

**Five.**

**When he offers his lips, take them. Take his arms, his throat, take his toes when he offers. Gorge. Swallow everything whole. Gag. Vomit. Swallow more. Do not hesitate. No time for polite, or coy. Take.**

Between gasps and pulling of the sheets, Luke is able to form coherent words. "Please... one more... you're....so..." He doesn't finish the sentence because Han bucks forward and hits him _just right_ and Luke's back arches and he's screaming.

Ravenous, that's the word he was looking for. Han absolutely ravages the kid when they have a moment alone.

At first, Han was soft and delicate with Luke in a way he'd never been with his former flames. Han was accustomed to quick and hard fucking for hours on end, but when he and Luke first started, he made sure to ease the kid into everything he knew and was comfortable with.

("Are you sure?" He asked, turning back to face Luke from where he was, planting kisses on the boy's neck. "We don't have to, if you don't want to." 

"Yes, I want to," Luke replied, mouth dry. He sounded out of breath, as the older man dragged his lips down his neck and across his collarbones.

Han didn't resurface to face Luke immediately, rather, he gently pushed the younger man on his back and gazed at him, wanting to make sure Luke was fully aware of his decision.

"I know what you're thinking," Luke said, quietly. He parted his legs, one at a time, on either side of Han and steadied his breathing, "I mean it," a pause, "I want it to be you."

Well, shit, that does it.)

It was Han who taught the kid how to kiss and touch before they introduced sex into the equation, so this was just another tier on the cake of lessons that he and Luke awkwardly braved through together. In given time, he and Luke would come to discover every last space of skin on the other's body, how to make love and how to be rough, what drove the other one over the edge, amongst many other things.

With Luke, Han preferred to be soft. He wanted to savor every last moment when Luke was like this: naked, a panting wreck, not a Jedi or a hero, rather, at his most vulnerable to him. He went slow and steady, burying himself deeply and intertwining their hands together, that way he was with him from the very start until the messy end. The kisses he placed were light, enfolded in the crook of Luke's neck, hips, collarbones, but they were lasting. When his hands swept over Luke's torso and back, they were gentle, but engulfing. He never went faster, or used more strength, unless Luke asked him to.

But with all-out war now on the horizon, and his time between his allegiance to the rebels and Luke's Jedi-training, moments were they could be alone together were becoming scarcer. Now, when the two found time were they could be with each other, they seized and grappled at each other as though they had not seen each other in years.

Soft turns into rough, in the form of Luke's nails raking down the length of Han's back; delicate becomes rough, the cascading of shirt buttons and boots slamming against walls, all regard for their possessions cast aside; and Luke places no boundaries or limits in these moments, lets the smuggler put his hands wherever he wants; thankful to have another moment together.

* * *

 

Han's pacing is relentless, the friction between them unforgiving as Luke is bucked back and forth against the cold wall of the Falcon.

Luke's face is scrunched tight, trying so hard to keep from busting right then and there. He is grasping at the wall behind him, trying to find anything to hold onto, desperately withholding his orgasm for as long as possible. He grabs onto Han's shoulders, his nails digging deeply into the bare skin, moans filling up the room. Tomorrow he has to train again, and he's unsure how long he has—in terms of training, and blissful moments like this—until the Empire makes a grab for him.

Han grunts in infrequent intervals, pushing himself in and out of Luke fervently, until finally, his muscles twitch and his voice becomes ragged and uneven, the force of his orgasm tearing through him and he releases right into Luke.

Luke breathes a sigh of relief, and it's just about the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, Han thinks, as his sigh turns into a shudder, and the savior of the galaxy crumbles in his last defense, coming in waves right before Han's very eyes.

His chest is a mess from Luke, and the two are quivering, shaking disasters. Still, when Han pulls himself out of Luke, the older man places sloppy, lazy kisses on the kid's neck, face, mouth, and starts to lower him back towards the ground. "I love you," he breathes, in between kisses, "I love you, I love you."

**+**

**Six.**

**When the minions call you whore, nod.**

When the war ends, and the last fleet of the Empire is either destroyed or captured, Luke is catapulted from poster boy of the rebels to revered hero. All the rebels involved were hailed by the galaxy for their valiant efforts, but it was Luke, last of the Jedi, who was especially held up—for confronting and conquering Darth Vader, and he hasn't been allowed to be put back on the ground since.

Han tightens his grip around Luke's shoulders when the swarm of fans and devoted supporters of the allegiance run up to him, fervent devotion and excitement ablaze in their eyes. _Our savior, our hero, how can we_ ever _repay you?_ Followed by the batting of eyelashes, flash of skin, lips curved around glistening white smiles. 

The queue of people wanting a slice of the young Jedi was not limited strictly to women; there more than a few handfuls of men—rebels, who ought to have known better, included—who made their interest in Luke fairly obvious. Han's had to size himself up against quite a couple suitors when some of the more proactive followers started to get a little too handsy.

Of course, Luke would never, but it sure as hell doesn't mean he doesn't notice the stares and open invitations.

"They can look all they want," Han murmurs, mouth against Luke's hair, the younger man sitting between his legs, tucked cozily beneath Han's wrapped arms. "But only I get to see the real deal." Luke smiles, bashful.

"Exactly," He replies, "I love you, and only you." Han hangs onto the words, cementing them into his memory, pressing his lips again to the younger man's sandy hair.

However, even with this reassurance, Han still averts his attention when they call him smuggler scum, moon-jockey, amongst other various nicknames. It's a side-effect of Luke's fame, he supposes. There was a never-ending parade of people heckling him, reminding him he was undeserving of the kid; a thought he tries to push out of his head more often than he cares to admit, even before it found its way to other people’s mouths.

He has to keep reminding himself he's the one who's been fortunate enough to go to bed with Luke, wake up with him, day in and day out, for the last few years. The faint echoes of Luke's  _I love you_ 's cementing his place in the kid's life. 

**+**

**Seven.**

**He will tell you of the others. How they went crazy in their sleep awaiting his return. Do not flinch. Do not doubt your thickened fingertips. Stand upright. You promised.**

Luke already does an apt job at keeping himself grounded, but sometimes, Han is there to give him the extra tug that keeps him tethered to the planet.

He is playing holochess with Chewie, a pastime he's taken more to lately. His concentration is split evenly between his beloved and the piece he's about to sacrifice in order to advance in the game. "I'm sorry your highness," He drawls, an insult he reserves usually for Leia, but felt best suited to Luke currently, "I wanted to hear about Luke's day, not the royal queen of Sheba." He flicks his eyes towards him, dryly.

Luke returns the dry stare, crouching down to where Han was sitting, "I'm sorry... it's just... you know... people, and creatures alike, just _completely_ fell over themselves when Leia and I stopped on the planet, and here we thought that this place was so remote and undetected that—"

"You're a Skywalker," Han quips, waiting for Chewie to make his move, jaw balanced in the palm of his hand. "You’ll get stared at no matter what planet or nebula you fall into, it's a curse... your ugly face attracts attention, Luke, what can I say?"

Chewie roars in amusement, and then proceeds to knock over one of Han's pieces, winning the game.

**+**

**Eight.**

**When you find him in his room, thrashing the sheets, pressing his palms into the walls, howling, his face a river... close the door. This is how he makes win. Leave him in his sorcery.**

Most of their nights are peaceful. Luke will curl up beneath him like a question mark and Han envelopes him in his arms, the covers pulled over them both. There is a roof over their heads, a bed beneath them, and years ago, all this might have seemed like a distant dream. They are content, for the most part, with what their lives have become since the destruction of the Empire.

However, some nights, Luke's memories of the war will rush over him like an unyielding tide, and the younger man is forced to relive images of events he's tried to forget.

"Luke, Luke," Han whispers, sitting up, shaking the younger man’s torso to wake him up after a particularly awful nightmare. Luke lied next to him, panting, in cold sweats, and whimpering, "Luke!" He shouts, and the kid sits up, like some automatic door, panting and heaving and in clear distress. "Luke, it's not real. Whatever you dreamt, it's not real. Luke. LUKE," Han grabs onto Luke's shoulders, spacing out his words, trying to speak to him as firmly as possible. "We're home. Where we live. This is real, right now. You and me. Real." He presses Luke's hand onto his chest, as though trying to tie him back into the present, and ensure that the whole thing - the house, him, everything, was happening in the here now.

Luke's breathing is erratic still, and his voice comes out shaken and uneven. "I'm home," He says, as though trying to make himself believe it. "Home," The words foreign, running around in his mouth. "Han, I... I dreamt...Palpatine, when he was torturing me...when he was--"

Han moves to hold him, willing to bring him back to the present, but Luke pushes him away. Sits at the edge of the bed, back turned, still shaking, sweat still pouring down his back. "Luke, I'm right here." He reached out with one hand, pushing back the covers with the other, quietly egging him to return to their bed. "Luke?" He asks, softly.

Years of witnessing Luke have these episodes has made it all too clear that there was no cut-and-paste solution on how to bring his significant other back down to reality. When Luke disappears into the world inside his head, a place where Han can't reach him, he feels helpless, but understanding. After everything that's happened, he's fortunate that Luke came back at all after that last stand-off with Vader, when it all could've gone so wrong.

All he can do, during these moments, is give him his space. Space in the inches between them in their bed, and in the meters that separate them when Luke leaves their home to clear his head. He always returns, after a short while. And when he does, Han readily wraps his arms around him to keep him as close as possible. Everything is peaceful once again.

**+**

**Nine.**

**When he explains that he cannot love. That he will never be yours alone. When he tells how the meek, the gluttons, the tempted, the proud are his angels, do not mourn. Smile, feed him, wash his hair.**

He will always have to share Luke. He has always known this. He will have to share him with his sister, with the rebels, with his students, with the whole damned galaxy, for crying out loud. Luke, not used to be wanted and reviled from all directions, tries so hard to appease all corners and keep things balanced and every single person or creature happy.

When Luke tells him of his plans to open up a school for Jedi-in-training, Han says he it's a good idea. Even if the nagging voice he's begun to develop in the back of his head says that it's not necessary, that danger is afoot, to talk him out of it. He asks him if he's sure. He asks him why he always needs to have his hands busy. He bothers him with a plethora of inquiries.

"Don't Jedi's ever retire?" Han asks, half-bemused and half-serious. Luke laughs at the remark, thinking Han is asking it only to be funny.

Han tells him to be careful, because of course he does, because he can never flat out tell Luke to _not_ do something.

Sometimes Luke tells him that Leia needs him to help out something or another with the rebel alliance. That they will be stop on another planet for a week or two, and Han is more than welcome to come and catch up with the rebels and with Leia, whom he has not seen in a while. Han comes and sure enough, has a fun time reconnecting with old friends and fellow rebels, Leia included, and watches over as Luke and Leia hatch out strategy after strategy (mostly Leia), offering comment and advice of his own from time to time. Counting down the days when he and Luke can go back to their comfortable little home.

"You know you don't owe anyone anything," Han tells him one evening, as they're enjoying food, overlooking a grand stretch of water from the back of their home. Luke listens intently, twiddling with his utensils and looking at the wooden table in front of him. "You've done more than enough for, well, everyone. You helped to save the galaxy, for stars sake." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I don't understand why you can't just sit down for a week and maybe, I don't know, _sleep._ "

"I know, I know. I just..." Luke sighs, closes his eyes, and responds, "I just want to help."

Han huffs, "I know, Luke. I just think you could use an actual vacation for once."

It's not that he wants Luke all to himself, or something of similar possessive intent. It's just that Luke's never had a down day in what feels like forever. And with their youth seeming to just slip right past their hands, Han wants the kid to actually enjoy himself while he's still young, without feeling guilty about it. Han still pledges his allegiance to the alliance to his final breath, but he knows that there's no reason to be so proactive about it now, considering there's no immediate threat poised to strike at any day now.

He wants to wake up with Luke, go to sleep with Luke, grow old and everything in between with the blasted kid, without having to worry about him slipping away or having to share him so often, and he doesn't understand why it's such a difficult thing to ask for.

"I'll try," Luke says, forcing a smile, promising nothing.

The next week, he's off on some other intergalactic errand. Promises, like always, to be back as soon as possible, which usually means a few days or so.

Han takes up smuggling missions again, every once in a while, just to get out of the house.

**+**

**Ten.**

**He is a king among thieves. The leeches will hollow his skin, the crows reduce him to bones. His own heart will empty him. Allow for the bleed. Be ready with tourniquet and prayer.**

"We're getting too old to be doing this," Han complains, dropping himself on the seat next to Luke. His knees make a slight cracking sound as he does, and he makes a face as though to say _see what I mean?_ He reaches for two ingredients and starts to make a mixture of something to apply to the wound on Luke's shoulder. A slew of fixer-upper remedies sit next to him, waiting to be used. " _You're_ too old to be doing this, and that's coming from me."

Luke scoffs the age difference between them rarely brought up. "They're Jedi-in-training. Accidents are inevitable."

"Okay, Mr. Jedi-Knight, next time, when they decapitate your head, don't come crawling to me asking if I'll stitch up the mess and get MY hands dirty," Han retorts, applying the mixture over the laceration on Luke's shoulder with quiet focus. "I've fixed you up enough times over the years; I could be a certified medic for the galaxy if I wanted to."

Luke laughs, the straggling of his beard scratching against Han's busy hands. "Hey, at least I'll have a neat scar," Han throws a look of utter pain, which only results in Luke musing out loud, "I'd still be attractive though, wouldn't I?" He waggles a greying eyebrow at Han, who shakes his head and continues to apply the lotion to most of the wound and surrounding area.

The two look just about their age. They're at that unforgiving in-between stage, their sandy and brunette locks finally dulling and thinning, the lines around their faces deepening, even their voices were becoming scratchier as the time passed. Han, possibly in an effort to cling on to his prized golden years, refused to give up his jackets and smuggler get-up, despite rarely dabbling in the sport anymore. Luke, however, has begun to trade in his stylish getups for traditional Jedi robes. He also refuses to stop teaching at his school for Jedi children, even though Han reminds him from time to time that his older students could probably take over.

Luke will never feel as though he doesn't owe the galaxy anything, and though Han throws him the occasional suggestion, he is done trying to convince him otherwise. All he can do is be ready with a quick 'I told you so', and usher him to the nearest first aid kit.   

"I'm in retirement, y'know," Han mutters to himself, sometime after the shoulder incident, as Luke shuffles over, a plate of treats and drink in tow for him and Han. Han watches carefully as Han sets down the platter, knowing that his hand is still bandaged from some accident or other thing. "And if that means seeing you around the house more, if you're actually here, then so be it."

"And you will, you will," Luke says, gleefully. Han picks up his cup and takes a sip, and Luke picks up a snack from the platter and nibbles intently. The quietness between them hangs comfortable, only to be interrupted by a briskly asked, "Will you rebandage my hand, later on, by the way?"

Han looks up from his cup and simply stares straight ahead.

**+**

**Eleven.**

**In the dry burn of dawn, after the last of the lashes, the thorns and the spittle, when his limp body is laid at your feet, remember the night you loved him, the ember of his eyes and way the words came like honey.**

In order for love to conquer all, there must be _something_ to conquer. That's where the evil comes from. That's where it resides, lurking, awaiting for another opportunity to sink its teeth and spread its poison. Strike at the Achilles heel. Give meaning again to resistance.

The First Order.

Han remembers the destruction of Starkiller Base, the way the planet glowed like an incandescent ball of fire, imploding in front of their very eyes, debris flying every which way throughout the galaxy. He remembers finding Rey sobbing over Finn's unconscious body, and getting her on the ship before the Base completely imploded.

He remembers Chewie's howl of grief echoing throughout the critical facility, the lasers from his blaster ricocheting off the steel beams and hitting the explosives. He remembers Rey screaming and the flow of tears that followed. He will forever remember the look of horror of Finn’s face, as it has become imprinted in the deepest chambers of his mind.

Lightsabers, constructed by kybar crystals, are the ideal weapons of both the Jedi and Sith Lords. They're not exactly common, as they're difficult to wield and dangerous, but under the hands of a skilled apprentice, the lightsaber is one of the most lethal and deadly weapons to have in one's arsenal.

Before now, Han had only seen the one wielded by Luke, a green, single-bladed one.

He had never seen a crossguard, haphazardly-made, red one before. And now he hoped he would never see one again.

"NO!" He shouted, at the top of his lungs from the top of the balcony where he and the rest of their group awaited for Luke to return. Just as the lightsaber ripped through Luke's torso, the man going limp in Kylo's grasp, then, finally, falling from the bridge into the abyss below.

After that, he remembered only in flickers and sounds. 

He crushes Leia in his arms when they come back to D'qar. She already knows. She must've realized it the moment it happened.  She wraps her arms around Han's waist and clings on to him, afraid now, to lose him too. A flurry of movement passes all around them, different members of the resistance responding to the destruction of Starkiller Base, and the news of the loss of the veteran rebel, himself.

Luke. His Luke. Farmboy turned most-important-wanted-man-of-the-galaxy. Who never knew when to turn down from a fight, or when to just _stop trying to help people._ Whose face was the first thing he saw every morning, and the last thing he saw every night. Who had been thrust, once again, into the middle of a war.

Luke, who he would never see again.

Somehow, he always knew. He always felt the inevitability of this happening. Every night they laid together, since the very beginning, preparing him for the inevitable moment when he suddenly wouldn't be there anymore. They lived out their whole lives, going from intergalactic fight to another, finding their happiest moments in the milliseconds between the storms, and never planning a damned thing in between. The most difficult part of falling in love with someone as larger-than-life as Luke, Han reckoned, was knowing from the start that they could never be normal; they would never have that perfect, happy ending. Han, somehow, always knew Luke would never escape the fame, and the consequences, that came along with someone as prominent as him.

Afterwards, when he was alone in the Falcon, he kicked and yelled and punched at the damned walls of the useless ship; trying to avoid thinking of the years Luke had lost, how he'd never get to reach Han's age, or how he'd lost his best friend and love of his life, all at once.

He swore he was going to go back to Tatooine and burn the whole damned cantina bar where they met down because all it had done was give him this weight he had never wanted, and a pain that would never end. It had given him someone whom didn't know how to wrap up his own injuries, still, decades later; someone so damned stubborn and wouldn't take his advice; someone so righteous and selfless...

Han pulled back his fist, readying for another punch against the ships wall, the wall he was hiding behind coming unraveled.

It had given him someone to love for most of his life, something he knows he was lucky to have. He was given someone to kiss, protect, embrace, someone who he never had to question, even for a moment’s notice, if they had loved him too. He had decades upon decades worth of memories of Luke Skywalker he knew he could never trade in. 

Every lock of hair flitting over his eyes, every burst of laughter, every time he said his name. The way Luke studied him, head cocked and calculating, that Han used to hate, but wishes now more than ever to see it one last time. He did his best to measure Luke's life in anything but years. Every sunset, every meal, every embrace, measuring his life in simplest pleasures instead of numbers.

He loved him. Even in death, the kid still had him. He would always have him. 

Dejected, defeated, Han walks into the cockpit and see's Rey from the window, across the base, talking to Leia.

Rey. The last hope for the Rebellion, and she doesn't even realize it yet. She inherited so much of Luke's spirit from the years of training, and time spent together, that it seems to radiate off of her, creating an aura of protection. She turns and is able to see Han from the cockpit of the Falcon, looking intently at her.

Her eyes weren't blue, or even big, but even from here, he could see they carried the same, tired indignancy that Luke so proudly wore, day in and day out.

_But, who's gonna fly it, kid? You?_

He sees Poe Dameron, residential gifted pilot and favorite of the general, being rushed out of the medics tent where Finn was rolled off into. Han see's the man arguing with one of the medics, frantically, trying to make his way back into the tent. He recognizes that familiar combination of worry, and a little bit of something else, because it's a look he's worn for decades too.

_You bet I can, I'm not such a bad pilot myself._

And Han realizes that Luke would have never wanted the resistance to fall apart in the event something had happened to Leia, Luke, or him. With the crushing weight of preserving Luke's memory, he silently vows to help the Resistance move forward, taking the reigns that Luke had left.

He straightens back his shoulders and moves to leave the Falcon; more determined than ever to see the First Order conquered and defeated.

**+**

**Twelve.**

**_You were made for this._ **

He strides into Leia's sector of the base, where she sits upon her bed, looking and feeling more tired than she's felt in years. At the familiar sound of Han's boots drawing closer to her room, she looks up at the door and finds the former smuggler looking at her from across the room.

"C'mon, general," He says, softly. "We've got a war to win."

**Author's Note:**

> Long time, no write! Actually, that's not entirely true. I've been writing, just haven't done the publishing part in a while. HOWEVER, I love Han and Luke to itty bitty bits and when I reread this poem, I couldn't help but think of these two and what a great fit they were for it.
> 
> If you read all the way through, thanks!


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